Forsaken House (16 page)

“Durothil needs to be put in her place,” Seiveril snarled into the night. “The Seldarine themselves have anointed House Moonflower as the ruling House of Evermeet. If she opposes you, that is one thing, but she is trying her will against that of Corellon Larethian himself, and that I will not stand.”

“That may be the case, but it is not for me to punish her, nor for you.” Amlaruil looked back to Seiveril and said, “I must return before I am missed. Since you have argued so passionately for intervention, I wanted you to hear my decision first, and I wanted you to know why I made it. Needless ,to say, I do not want anyone else to know of the threat Lady Durothil issued me. I am entrusting you with this so that you will understand why you must yield the point.”

Seiveril closed his eyes and replied, “I will not repeat this to anyone. It stands between the two of us and the Seldarine alone.”

“Good.” Amlaruil whispered the words of an arcane spell, and her form began to glow silver and shift its shape again. “Your passion does you credit, Seiveril. My hands may be tied, but perhaps yours are not.”

An instant later, she took wing again, a white shadow flitting through the darkness beneath the trees.

Seiveril watched her fly off, his mind turning. The gods themselves had ordained the ascendancy of House Moonflower, yet still there were those who envied Amlaruil’s rule and thought to govern in her place. He looked up to the stars overhead again.

“Corellon, show me the path,” he whispered. “There must be something I can do.”

The forest seemed chill and shadowed, empty in the growing darkness. But then a single moonbeam broke through a gap in the clouds to flood the silent grove with silver light. Seiveril turned his face up to Saune, and an idea arose in his mind. The audacity of it staggered him, but if it worked—if it worked!-he might turn the course of events as surely as a few well-placed stones might alter a river’s flow.

*****

Dank green moss clung heavily to the twisted limbs of the dark-boled trees looming overhead. Araevin and his companions had traveled three hundred miles south with a few short steps through the ancient elfgate in the House of Long Silences. The broken stump of an abandoned elven watchtower dating back to old Miyeritar stood over the southerly arch of the elfgate. Its ragged top no longer pierced the dense, close canopy of the forest, but the plaza of cracked flagstones surrounding it created a small clearing beneath the trees.

“I don’t like the looks of this,” Maresa said. The pale genasi led her horse away from the gate, studying the shadows under the trees. “The whole place positively reeks of trolls.”

“They prefer to hunt by night,” Araevin said. “With luck, we’ll reach clear ground before dark. We would be wise to proceed without delay.” He nodded at a thickly overgrown trail leading away from the tower, following the bed of an ancient roadway. “If we follow that path, we’ll meet the Trade Way in about ten miles.”

“You’ve come this way before?” asked Ilsevele.

“Once, about fifty years ago, when I was engaged in exploring the portals in Elorfindar’s care. I was fortunate enough to avoid the trolls, but there are a couple of difficult stream crossings ahead.”

“Nothing brightens a day of winter travel like the prospect of a good soaking,” Grayth observed. He sighed and took his mount by the reins, leading it away from the tower. The brush and tree limbs overhanging the path were too thick for riding.

Ilsevele, as the most wood-wise of the party, took the lead, bow in hand. Araevin followed her, leading both his horse and hers so that she could watch the trail ahead without tending a mount. Maresa and Grayth followed, and the young swordsman Brant brought up the rear, leading the packhorse along with his own mount.

The trail was much as Araevin remembered it, climbing steeply up and down as it wandered eastward over a series of fingerlike ridges stretching north from the nearby Troll Hills. The forest was soggy and cold, with swift, narrow rivulets of water rushing down in hundreds of nameless little brooks that crossed their path, and when the trail reached the ravine and valley floors between the ridges, it usually met a loud, swift, and cold stream.

At the boulder-strewn bank of one such stream about an hour’s walk from the tower, Araevin found Ilsevele crouched over the trail,

“Tracks?” he asked.

She glanced up as he approached and said, “How often do people come this way?”

“It’s not really on the way to anywhere. Adventuring companies searching for the Warlock’s Crypt might pass this way. I suppose there are a few who might seek out the watchtower, hoping to find some lost elven treasure or maybe make use of the portal, as we did. What do you see?”

“Troll sign, not more than a few hours old. At least four or five of them, I think. They’re following the trail ahead of us.” Ilsevele straightened and brushed off her hands. “I’ve seen tracks both coming and going. We may meet these fellows if they come back this way.”

The company pressed on, fording the stream and climbing back up the heavily overgrown ridge on the far side. They marched for another two hours, as the overcast slowly descended and a cold rain began to fall, lightly at first but growing more steady as the afternoon wore on. The going was even more difficult than Araevin remembered. At no point did the trail open up enough for them to mount their horses, and finding ways to get the animals across the treacherous broken streambeds took far more time than he had supposed. By dusk Araevin guessed that they still had three or four more miles before reaching the forest’s edge. He began to consider the question of whether they should push on, or make camp.

A shrill cry from ahead interrupted his thoughts. “Trolls!” shouted Ilsevele. “Trolls!”

Araevin looked up from the trail, only to realize that Ilsevele had gotten far enough ahead of him that he could not see her through the dense underbrush. He cursed himself for allowing his attention to narrow to the trail right in front of his feet, and hurriedly threw the reins of his horse over a nearby branch.

“Trolls ahead!” he called over his shoulder, just in case the others had not heard Ilsevele’s cry, and he sprinted down the trail. Ilsevele’s bow thrummed twice, then twice again. From somewhere out of his sight, a wet, burbling voice howled in pain, and others joined in with cries of anger and bloodlust.

Aillesel seldarie, he thought as he dashed over the difficult trail. Let her be safe! Let me reach her before the trolls do.

He knew that Ilsevele was a highly trained warrior, as good with a bow as any he’d ever seen, but still the thought of her standing alone against blood-maddened trolls made his heart ache with terror as if a cold iron knife twisted in his chest.

He topped a sharp rise in the trail, and found the scene laid out before him. Ilsevele stood beside a gnarled oak, calmly firing arrow after arrow into a gang of half a dozen trolls who thrashed up the path toward her, loping along with their knuckles dragging on the ground at the end of their long, gangly arms. The vile creatures roared and bellowed in challenge, their mouths filled with rotten black fangs. One troll had fallen writhing on the rain-wet boulders, transfixed by five arrows, but one by one it plucked the arrows out of its body. Its spurting green blood slowed to a trickle and halted as its warty flesh puckered and healed around the injuries. Trolls were not so easily killed.

Araevin hurried down toward Ilsevele, leaping from boulder to boulder. He heard Maresa at his heels, swearing like a Calishite sailor, and behind her the heavy footfalls of the two humans as they thundered toward the fight. Ilsevele’s bow sang like a harp, and her arrows hissed angrily through the air.

Head-sized rocks hurled back up the hill in response as the trolls pelted Ilsevele with anything they could get their hands on.

“Elf-meat! Elf-meat!” they cried, scrambling up the hillside.

Araevin shoved his lightning wand into his belt and fished in his bandolier for the reagents for a spell. He knew from long practice what each pocket held without even looking. As he rolled a pinch of sulfur between the fingers of his left hand he quickly barked out the words of a fire spell. From his right forefinger a single gleaming bead of orange streaked out toward the charging trolls, only to detonate in a thunderous burst of flame. Trolls shrieked and scattered, flames clinging to their malformed bodies.

“Well done, Araevin!” Grayth exclaimed.

The priest drew up abreast of Araevin and unsheathed his hand-and-a-half sword with a ringing rasp. Then he skidded down the path to meet the trolls in front, less than twenty yards from Ilsevele’s perch. Brant followed half a step behind him. The hulking monsters screeched in rage, their mossy hides smoking from the flames of Araevin’s fireball.

“For Lathander’s glory!” the warrior-priest cried.

He leaped in close to the first troll, taking off its arm at the elbow before ducking under its snapping jaws to ram his sword deep into the creature’s gizzard. Brant fought at his side, guarding Grayth’s back as he fended off another troll with a flurry of shining steel.

“You need fire to kill them!” Araevin called. “They’ll just keep healing until we burn them!”

“Right,” Ilsevele replied.

She whispered the words to a spell of her own, and suddenly the arrow in her bow blazed with brilliant white flame She took careful aim, and shot the troll flailing at Brant through the throat. The creature’s knees buckled, and it went to all fours, pawing at the burning missile lodged in its neck, at which point Brant hewed off its foul head_

Araevin felt the brilliant chill of magic rippling in the air behind him. He glanced back to see Maresa aiming a wand of her own at the trolls trying to circle around the two swordsmen holding the path. A jet of roaring flame sizzled out from the genasi’s wand and she seared one of the trolls into a lump of black, burning meat.

“Hah! Take that!” she called at her foes, leaping down after them with her rapier in one hand and her wand in the other. “Who wants to play next, eh?”

Three trolls were down, and the remaining monsters wavered in confusion. Araevin chose to make their decision easy for them. He conjured up a globe of swirling green acid and hurled it at the biggest troll left. The orb arched through the air and caught the troll across the head and chest even as it tried to twist out of the way, raising one long arm to fend it off. The creature shrieked in agony and staggered back as its flesh smoked and sizzled. The other two trolls broke and ran as their leader shambled off. Grayth and Brant pursued them a few steps, slashing at their backs as they loped away.

“I’m not done with you yet!” Grayth called after them.

Ilsevele took aim at the acid-burned troll staggering blindly away, and put it down with two arrows in its misshapen skull.

“Should I take the other two?” she asked.

“No, let them go,” Araevin said. “They might serve to warn off any other trolls in the area.”

“Or they might go round up some friends,” Maresa said. She tucked her wand into her belt and sheathed her rapier. “How many more fireballs can you cast?”

“Quite a few,” Araevin answered. “I knew we intended to travel the Trollbark today, and made suitable preparations.” He glanced at the genasi. “By the way, you didn’t mention that you knew some magic.”

“It didn’t come up before. Besides, I like to keep you guessing.”

Maresa grinned fiercely and turned away to pick her way back toward the horses.

The elf mage shook his head. He glanced over at Ilsevele, and took her hand.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“Of course. It will take more than a few trolls to frighten me. You should know that by now.”

“I can’t help it. I fear that something might happen to you.”

“I can look after myself, thank you,” Ilsevele replied. “You keep an eye on yourself, my betrothed. I have too many years invested in you to start over again with some other thickheaded fellow.”

Behind her, a long column of marching elves threaded their way along the trail. More than a hundred of Rheitheillaethor’s folk followed her. Unlike those who had fought at the village, they were not all warriors. Children and untrained youths, artisans or craftsmen who did not trust their martial skills, mothers of young children, and those rare elves hindered by age or injury, made up three-quarters of the company. A short string of pack animals—mostly elk and branta, temporarily held to their tasks with the urging of druids—carried the light shelters and furnishings the elves needed as well as a small number of wounded, but each elf also carried a pack of provisions. Two dozen archers, scouts, and mages flanked the marching line of folk who could not be expected to fight in their own defense.

Gaerradh kept her bow at hand and maintained her watch as the first of the marching elves lightly leaped from stone to stone across the stream. So far, they’d avoided additional battles with the demon-elves or their orc marauders, but only by fleeing deeper into the forest. All across the western High Forest, the wood elves were in flight, abandoning their camps and villages to seek shelter in the trackless depths of the immense woodland. Not all of the elven villages had managed to escape the invaders. In four days Gaerradh’s company had found one band of refugees slaughtered in a burned glade, and a village that had been surrounded and systematically exterminated. She still saw the flayed bodies every time she closed her eyes.

“Rillifane Rallathil, Master of the Forest, hide us from our enemies,” she prayed under her breath. “Spread your branches out over your People, and conceal us from our foes.”

Somewhere ahead they would find sanctuary. The High Forest was simply too large a hiding place, and even the most determined pursuer couldn’t hope to run all the fleeing bands to ground.

But they might catch up to a few.

A low whistle caught Gaerradh’s ear. She looked back

10 Ches, the Year of Lightning Storms

Cold and heavy, the rain arrived in the hour before sunrise and lasted all day. Ribbons of icy water cascaded down from the green canopy far above, turning the snow mantling the forest floor into frigid slush. Gaerradh could feel the first stirrings of spring in the High Forest—after all, it was raining, not snowing—but that did not mean the day was at all pleasant. Her woolen cloak was sodden and useless, her feet were wet and cold, and she could not stop shivering.